


I Like The Animal Way You Move

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when you’ve finished singing with the enemy, you just really need to have sex with your girlfriend. In thoroughly inappropriate locations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like The Animal Way You Move

Title: I Like The Animal Way You Move  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: Hard R.  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: For 3x17.  
Summary: Sometimes, when you’ve finished singing with the enemy, you just really need to have sex with your girlfriend. In thoroughly inappropriate locations.  
A/N: Title from Whitney Houston's "So Emotional."

  
There are a great many things Santana loves about being able to call Brittany Pierce her girlfriend. Not bearing the weight of a massive secret chest-caving love, for one. The underrated pleasure of being allowed to snarl until football players the size of mountains scamper out of sight, should one be so stupid as to edge in on Brittany’s locker, for another. And, even though they’ve been best friends all their lives, it turns out Mrs. Pierce whips out the _really_ great baking recipes for someone her daughter is openly in love with. Although, thinking on that now, those cookies might just be a resounding plateful of _thank you for finally admitting what we’ve known since you were eight, and by the way, we really appreciate you not sneaking in through the window at 2 AM to violate our eldest child, thanks very much, Santana._

Embarrassing, but the combination of oatmeal and white chocolate chips was particularly fantastic.

The list of awesome goes on and on, but Santana has to admit that the very best part—the thing that didn’t exactly _start_ with their relationship, but certainly feels a whole lot better now that they aren’t being so sneaky and abrupt about it—has an awful lot to do with the sex. Particularly the sex in places where they should not be having sex.

It isn’t new, but it somehow feels so much better now that she’s not freaking out about people walking in on them.

Although, if the daggers Quinn sent them last week in the first-floor bathroom were any indication, maybe she should still be paying just a little bit of attention to locking those doors.

But whatever; bitches be damned, Santana Lopez will have her girl wherever she damn well pleases. It’s a perk of being in love, and out, and a motherfucking senior. Hell, it’s not like anyone could _expel_ her, even if they do get themselves caught. Figgins is too busy stammering over his too-careful _don’t get sued_ mentality to hold any power over them whatsoever. They're on top of the heap, Head Sexbomb and Madame President, and nobody is stupid enough to get in their way. The only reason she doesn’t slam Brittany up against their locker every morning for a who-needs-first-period makeout sesh is because there’s something marginally grody about being gawked at by the whole fucking rugby team.

It’s a dignity thing.

Which she will happily chuck right out the window each and every time Brittany gets _that_ look in her eyes.

She’s got it now, as Santana twists and turns herself around the choir room, the drumbeats of one of Whitney's best punctuated by the whoops and hollers of her teammates. Yeah, it’s a song about cheating on your man (or wo-man, she supposes), and the way they’re singing it fosters the altogether-creepy idea of doing that running around with one Rachel “I’m Childlike and Horrifying, But Occasionally My Voice Displaces That Fact” Berry. It wasn’t her first choice, but Rachel needed a partner, and _no one_ can deny how quality they sound together.

Plus, there’s the added bonus of doing _this_ —putting on a show for her girl—with absolutely no chance of being told off by their gel-magnet of a teacher for it.

(Not that he’d say anything, anyway. For one, William Schuester is blatantly gawking at them both like he’s forgotten he is no longer fifteen and therefore kind of an enormous skeaze, and for another—Santana is almost entirely positive he’s terrified of her.)

Putting on a show is what she’s always done best, one way or another, and it’s clearly having the right effect now. Brittany leans back in her seat, camera phone at the ready, looking like she would happily surge up and pin Santana to the grimy tile floor in a heartbeat. Which Santana would be _totally_ for, except for the certainty that Rachel does not take kindly to interrupted performances, and would probably continue the choreography right across their faces. Brittany will have to wait until Santana is done out-shining the biggest semi-deluded star to ever flounce like a small Dutch child at the fair through McKinley’s halls.

Why did she agree to sing an awkwardly sexual song with Berry again?

Whatever. Brittany’s licking her lips like a goddamn jungle cat right now, and Santana can’t resist throwing a wink and an exaggerated little grind in return. The clench of Brittany’s thighs against the chair suggests she’s doing her job exactly right.

Of course she is. Being smoking hot was never a question.

The world is rapidly fading away, Rachel’s bobbing presence barely registering in comparison to the arch of Brittany’s back as she leans forward, tilting her head up when Santana shimmies closer, as if daring Santana to plop down on her lap and go for gold. Her hands flex against her thighs, hips jumping against the chair. Santana raises her eyebrows playfully and spins clear again, relieving Brittany of the chance to make a grab for her skirt.

It’s an upbeat song, despite its sincerely revolting—under the circumstances—lyrics, and Santana finds herself with no shame whatsoever. She pulls a couple of full body rolls, eyes linked with Brittany’s across the room, utterly aware that singing turns her girlfriend on almost as much as dancing does.

Oh yeah—she’s getting some after this.

When the song ends, Rachel does her best to leap into Santana’s arms like the clingy little song-hobbit she is. It’d be something of a lady-boner killer, if not for the sight of Brittany—still seated, her legs delicately crossed, arching one eyebrow and grinning. An expression that just _screams_ “you’re getting laid” at the top of its lungs, and it’s all Santana can do not to shove Berry as hard as she can and launch herself onto Brittany’s lap.

After that, practice seems to carry on forever, with Schue going on and on about how “change is good and productive, and you should never be afraid of what you don’t know.” Santana stares pointedly at the back of Brittany’s head, willing her to turn around, or at the very least, flash a little leg off to the side. Which, because Brittany is a total tease, she does _not_ do. As if Santana hadn’t just gone on a sexy rampage around the room just for her. She gives a little huff, ignoring the amused glance Mercedes sends her way.

Finally, _finally_ , Schuester dismisses them, and the whole gang—who seem almost as impatient as Santana’s feeling, though probably for much less awesome reasons—practically attempts to smash themselves through the doorway in one giant ball of lame. Brittany doesn’t move, her legs still crossed at the ankle, her gaze fixed on her lap.

On the _phone_ in her lap, Santana amends when she leaps down to the floor and gets a better view. On the tiny screen of which she can see herself, chest popping, eyelashes batting. Brittany’s lip is between her teeth, the fingers of her right hand rubbing unconsciously against the edge of her skirt.

“Like what you see?” she flirts, flicking her own skirt up with a brief twist of her waist. Brittany glances up, the earbud jammed in on one side becoming apparent for the first time. Santana grins.

“Rachel was pretty hot,” Brittany informs her casually, and tucks the phone away in her backpack. “And you were okay, I guess.”

“You guess,” Santana repeats, smirking. Brittany shrugs and folds her arms across her chest.

“Sure. I mean, you weren’t really looking at _me_ most of the time, so…”

A laugh would ruin the mood that’s slowly building between them, but Santana’s tempted anyway. The very idea that Brittany could ever be jealous of _Berry_ —or that Santana would ever give her reason to be—is absurd. In fact, in terms of absurdity, it falls somewhere between the idea of a butch Hummel and the concept of Finn Hudson taking flight off the town’s water tower like some kind of semi-capable superhero.

But laughing doesn’t fit with the light glare reflected in Brittany’s gaze, the one that teases, _Prove me wrong._ Santana’s smirk doubles in size.

“You want me to look at you?”

Brittany shrugs again, clearly trying not to grin. “I’m just saying, I’m kind of your girlfriend.”

“Right,” Santana drawls, turning a slow circle around the chair. “And girlfriends deserve performances just for them. Occasionally.”

“Every once in a while,” Brittany agrees. She’s leaning back again, her posture relaxing, but her eyes are sharp. “I mean, I _did_ recruit a mess of hot girls to dance for you.”

“Mmhmm…” Not that they need the audience, but Santana sort of wishes the perpetual band geeks in the corner hadn’t vanished so instantly. Live music is always better for this sort of thing.

But she can be flexible.

The music from her iPod speakers isn’t loud, but it’s good enough to set her hips moving, her arms extending above her head and turning outward at the wrists. Brittany remains stock-still in the chair, refusing to turn her head left or right to catch a glimpse of what Santana’s doing behind her, which at once seems to defeat the purpose of a performance and to jack up the heat in the room. She sort of loves it when Brittany plays hard to get.

Especially now that she knows she’s got her.

Fingers tugging the tie from her hair, Santana closes her eyes and lets herself sway in place for the span of a few heartbeats, drawing it out. If Brittany’s going to play the long game, she sure as hell can keep up, particularly with the ball resting in her court. Brittany isn’t going anywhere. Brittany has handed the wheel over to her for this particular afternoon, and she’s going to get everything that’s coming to her—eventually.

Santana’s hands smooth down Brittany’s shoulders and up again, catching lightly against the back of the chair. “So, did you like my song?” she asks, voice low and conversational. Brittany makes a quiet noise that might be a chuckle.

“Would’ve liked it better if you’d been playing solo.”

“I’m always solo,” Santana reminds her, executing a slow twirl that eases the skirt across her thighs magnificently. Shame Brittany can’t see her from there. “Unless I’m with you,” she adds, raking her hands up the sides of the chair and bending to place her lips against Brittany’s ear. “You know that.”

The breath audibly stalls in Brittany’s throat for just a second. Over her shoulder, her hands are visible, clenched together against her inner thighs. Santana grins, tongue flicking out across the lobe just long enough to guide Brittany’s head backward, toward her mouth.

“You do know that, don’t you?”

Brittany hums her acknowledgement and twists uneasily against maroon plastic. “You’re not doing a very good job of proving it right now.”

“ _You’re_ not looking,” Santana reminds her playfully, even as she wraps an arm around Brittany’s shoulders and presses a short kiss to the side of her neck. “Whose fault is that?”

The turn of Brittany’s head is miniscule, the upturned set of her jaw almost imperceptible, but Santana chalks it up as a win. Most days, Brittany can hold out in a battle of wills for hours. That duet must have really worn her out.

Rolling her hips, Santana makes her way slowly around the chair, following the song’s rhythm until she’s positioned directly in the line of Brittany’s gaze. Hungry, she notes with pleasure. Hungry and slightly fevered. Maybe jealousy did get its way this afternoon after all.

“You’re not _mad_ that I danced with another girl,” she teases, stroking both hands down her thighs as she bends low. Her back arches, breasts straining against her uniform top. Brittany’s eyes follow dutifully, teeth clenched around her bottom lip again. Slowly, her legs uncross, spreading a bit wider than is entirely ladylike. Santana likes that.

“Because, you know,” Santana goes on, turning herself deliberately in place and backing up until she can feel the press of warm plastic against her legs, “I’d _never_ —“

“Do something like that just to get me going?” Brittany breathes. The toes of her regulation sneakers are tilted toward the ground, the muscles in her calves tight; she’s fighting every impulse, Santana knows, to leap up and take care of business.

It’s the best part of this kind of fun, knowing she’s got Brittany on the edge of her seat, barely reining it in. Power like that can’t be bought, or threatened, only earned from years and years of experience.

She bends her knees, lowering until she’s all but seated in Brittany’s lap, still swaying to the beat. The rhythm has found its way into her bones now, moving her without plan or thought, and she can feel Brittany beginning to follow suit: rocking off the chair ever so slightly, pelvis finding Santana’s ass and pushing away again. Keeping it slow and steady, the way she knows Brittany won’t be able to hold for long.

“I’d _never_ ,” she repeats, rolling her head back on her neck as she lifts and drops against the spread pleats of Brittany’s skirt. “I don’t need to.”

“Oh?” It’s meant to be playful, she’s almost certain, maybe even daring, but Brittany’s long fingers have rooted against her waist, her attention riveted entirely on the physical. Santana lets her eyes flutter shut, lost in the slow burn of those fingers as they rove up her sides, crossing her abdomen until they meet in the middle and hold. With one jerk, Brittany could yank her down and hold her place, and this could all be over. On to a new kind of fun.

She’s almost surprised that Brittany doesn’t exercise that power—doesn’t do anything at all, in fact, but lean forward until her mouth brushes between Santana’s shoulder blades, open and warm through the fabric.

“I don’t think,” Brittany mumbles against her, “we’ll be needing this.”

Her fingers travel back to the base of Santana’s ribcage and up, taking the zippers with her. Obediently, Santana lifts her arms long enough for the top to slip free, and then slides a hand behind Brittany’s head and shifts just enough to meet her eyes.

If _hungry_ was the name of the game before, they’ve skyrocketed all the way to _starving_ now. She pumps her hips with more force, sinking until she’s planted directly against Brittany’s groin, until the beats reverberate through them as a single entity. Brittany’s mouth pans up her bare shoulder, teeth catching at her bra strap, and fixes against the side of her neck. Her tongue sweeps forth, deliciously patient; Santana shivers, holding tighter to the ravished ponytail clenched in her hand.

Letting Brittany kiss her was a mistake, she thinks hazily, because the minute Brittany’s mouth finds her skin, it’s all over--no matter what. No more power, no more control, and Brittany knows it. She can feel it in the curve of familiar lips, in the smile branding itself to the ridge of her shoulder. Brittany is winning.

_Can’t have that._

Santana rises and spins in the space between notes, throwing a leg on either side of Brittany’s lap and grinding down. It’s satisfying, watching blue eyes roll back, lips parting in surprise. Her fingers yank at the tie buried in tangled blonde hair and sends it zinging across the room.

“Didn’t need that, either,” she whispers, shivering pleasantly at the sound of her own husky voice in this big, empty room. Brittany nods, a single swift motion, and presses back against the chair as Santana’s arms sling across her shoulders, nails trickling up the span of her neck.

The sense of being this close to Brittany—of grinding at a measured pace upon her lap, strong legs flexing against the floor with the last of her willpower—and not kissing her is exhilarating. Santana drags her hands up through silken hair and braces her grasp against the base of Brittany’s skull, lowering until they’re face to face, forehead to forehead. Brittany exhales, shaky and excited, hands positioning themselves on Santana’s back. Powerful hands, Santana thinks, her skin thrumming with the pulse beneath Brittany’s palms. Powerful, soft, loving hands that skate the length of her spine and trail across her shoulder blades, manuvering with an old, comfortable ease that never ceases to bring heat to the very depths of her stomach.

Brittany winks, surprisingly cheeky even in this close proximity, and Santana groans. The hips beneath her own are rising and falling with greater abandon, nails drawing long scratches along every arch and twist of her back, and Brittany’s lips are barely an inch from her own. Parted, wanting, releasing that low, breathy whimper she only makes when she’s at her breaking point.

Santana lets herself fall, sinking into Brittany’s waiting kiss even as her body drops completely. Brittany’s tongue meets hers eagerly, one hand remaining braced against Santana’s back. The other skids around to her belly and up, cupping a breast just hard enough to be felt. Santana pushes against her palm, clutching at the back of Brittany’s neck, the music forgotten.

They rock together, the chair scraping against the floor as they move. Brittany’s head angles left, then right, her mouth opening to each thrust and parry of Santana’s tongue. She’s warm beneath her uniform, her skirt wound nearly to her waist, her kisses slippery and unmanaged.

Brittany undone is Santana’s favorite: no more choreography, no preparation of any kind, just the animal rhythm of her hips, driving against Santana’s, pushing and pulling recklessly. Brittany undone is unpredictable; her hands fit beneath Santana without warning, cradling her by the ass and lifting with a growl, until Santana has no choice but to wrap her legs instinctively around Brittany’s middle and lean into the motion. She pulls at Brittany’s hair, nips at her lips, moaning when Brittany carries them both backwards, her teeth settling into Santana’s collarbone with such force, it’s sure to leave a brilliant mark in its wake.

She’s on the piano before she knows it, spanks and panties discarded carelessly, and Brittany is pressed flush between her thighs. Santana hears herself moan, unrecognizable and half-mad, her legs struggling to bind together around Brittany’s midsection again.

Brittany pushes against her, panting, her kiss fevered, tongue sliding back into Santana’s mouth as though it was never absent. Her hands skim Santana’s chest, pausing only to pinch a nipple and scrape across a tight stomach, and then ease her thighs apart. Her hair wild, her eyes dark, she yanks until Santana wriggles forward, settled on the very edge of the gleaming instrument—and grins.

It’s the grin that lets Santana know she’s done for, more than anything else. The grin means _I’ve won_ , and _you’re mine_ , and _I’m going to prove it._ The grin is known for leaving her spent and half-sobbing, her legs quavering for days afterwards. No exceptions.

Brittany’s grinning that way now, her mouth flushed and pink, hand already working up the trail of Santana’s inner thigh. She can feel herself opening to the first stroke, to the pad of Brittany’s thumb across the very center of her clit, can feel the rushing in her head reach dizzying heights even as her hips jerk and scramble for friction. Her shoulders roll back, one hand braced against the piano lid, the other grasping at Brittany’s uniform like it’s the last thing tethering her to this world.

Brittany leans in and kisses her, deep and slow. At exactly the same moment, her fingers slide in, buried to the knuckle, palm meeting clit in soft, controlled bursts. Santana hears her voice strangle in her throat and pushes herself against Brittany’s body, riding out each stroke as it ebbs and flows, Brittany’s hand working in time with her tongue as it plunges and twists. Brittany is etching a song against her lips, her hand strong and certain between her legs, and Santana finds herself yanking at a blur of polyester and blonde hair, along for the ride.

Brittany doesn’t have to say a word for Santana to know what she’s thinking. Her body is a conversation piece all its own, her teeth tugging at Santana’s lip, her free hand braced against the side of her face. Her thumb traces a short, steady path between earlobe and cheekbone, her forehead pushing insistently against Santana’s when oxygen becomes too necessary, when Santana breaks away to moan for air as her focus swims in and out of reach. Her hips rail against the piano’s body, the muscles of her bicep tensing and slackening as she picks up the pace, driving as deep as Santana can allow, until her spine bows and her legs tremble.

Her hair plastered to her face, her hand knotted in mussed blonde hair, Santana forces her eyes open. Brittany is beautiful, working her over this way, her thumb swiping across the flush swell of her clit, her lips wrapped around Santana’s earlobe and sucking hard enough to bruise. Brittany is beautiful, and strong, and fascinating, with sweat trickling along the side of her neck and her fingers drumming a pattern into Santana that her hips ache to chase after.

Brittany has her at the edge, teetering against it, cresting and cresting, and still, she does not go over. Santana whines, half-hearing herself beneath the frenzy in her head, the snap and spark of flames rising up through her belly. Blue eyes rise, lips releasing her lobe with a light _pop_ , and then Brittany’s hand is slowing, her body sinking almost out of sight.

Santana sees it coming an instant before it does, and then it's all about the falling apart, hips lifting over the edge of the piano lid, heels biting into Brittany’s shoulders as pink lips kiss her hard, open, impossibly wet. She stops breathing, her muscles clenched around the fingers curling deep, the tongue following after them with short, expectant licks, and she feels Brittany hum against her—a note that sounds suspiciously like it belongs to a certain song sung not two hours ago—and that’s that. She bursts, a raincloud giving way to sunlight at last, the arm dropping out from under her. Her back collides with the lid and arches, and Brittany is still going, going, laughing that low, rumbling laugh against slick, swollen skin—

“ _Fuck_ ,” she heaves out when her voice is no longer dancing along the rafters, hoarse and heedless of anyone who might be nearby.

“Rachel couldn’t do that,” Brittany informs her smugly, standing up straight and wiping her mouth undelicately with the back of one hand. Struggling to sit up, Santana pins her with the strongest glare she can manage.

“Don’t _ever_ ,” she hisses through a shuddering sigh, “mention that name after sex. Or during sex. Or—at all, if sexy times are even close to happening.”

“Or what?” Brittany teases, tugging at Santana’s hips until her soaked, sticky naked skin presses to the front of Brittany’s uniform. Her eyes roll at the contact. “You’ll lap dance me into submission?”

“I _had_ you,” Santana grumbles, though she’s grinning with utter satisfaction. “A few more minutes of my bump and grind, and you’d have been coming in your pants.”

Brittany glances down, then back up, eyebrow arched. “Nuh uh. Magic skirt powers.”

“Oh really? Didn’t seem to work so well for me.”

“Your skirt has to be _on_ for it to work,” Brittany informs her, mock-witheringly, and laughs when Santana wrenches a hand around the back of her neck and smashes their mouths together in response.

“I owe you,” she announces when they’ve broken, Brittany’s nose pushing with light aggression against her own. Brittany kisses her, three quick bursts, and leans back. Her hands splay across Santana’s thighs, smoothing up and down until her stomach twists all over again.

“You really, really do. I mean—you danced all sexy with _Rachel_.”

Santana’s Cheshire grin threatens to split her face. “And I’ll do it again.”

Brittany’s eyes narrow. “We’ll see about that.”

“Oh, no. It’s happening.” She licks her lips, hands locked on either side of Brittany’s face. “Because, see, when I do _that_ , I get a great duet partner _and_ super awesome sex. I can’t lose.”

Brittany kisses her like she’s determined to make sure Santana never needs another duet partner as long as she lives, and as she sinks merrily into it, Santana thinks that the best thing about dating Brittany can be pretty hard to pin down sometimes…but the inappropriate sex locations come pretty close to first place.

Especially when Brittany whispers, “Catch me if you can,” before sprinting for the door and turning left.

The auditorium is left. The auditorium, with its low lights, and its velvet curtain, and so many hidden nooks and corners, Santana’s not sure how they’ll make use of them all in the next forty-two days.

Which is not to say they won’t try their very, very best.

Yeah—being able to call Brittany Pierce her girlfriend leads to some pretty fucking _awesome_ things.  



End file.
